


You Should Have Raised A Baby Girl (I Should’ve Been A Better Son)

by orphan_account



Series: Supersonic (Wo)man [3]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Dysphoria, Gen, M/M, Nail Polish, Original Male Character - Freeform, Sad Brian May, Sub Brian May, Trans Female Character, Transgender, i love mama, its for like 4 or 5 paragraphs, minor sex, mtf, oo the rating went up for this boys, voice dysphoria, yes the title is from an mcr song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 18:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18998137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He nodded again, feeling so shitty for making the three of them worry so much. He didn't think it would've been that big of a deal, to be honest. Roger stayed over at other people's places all the time. Freddie was once gone for the whole weekend before they started to worry. But, Brian realized, he wasn't Roger or Freddie. He didn't go out like they did. He certainly didn't have sex like they did.There’s an attempted heart-to-heart, Brian makes some mistakes, and Roger and John still have no idea how to help.





	You Should Have Raised A Baby Girl (I Should’ve Been A Better Son)

**Author's Note:**

> yes. i am aware it’s been almost 3 months since i last updated. i have nothing to say for myself.

It wasn't uncommon to catch Brian singing. Whether it be while grocery shopping, doing the dishes, watering the plants on the windowsill, more often than not the task would be accompanied by a tune. Sometimes Freddie would join in, turning Brian's solo performance into a duet to rival any famous musician. It only made sense that Brian was devastated when he realized just how uncomfortable singing had become.

It dawned on him much later than it should have. As always, Good Day Sunshine played on the morning radio. The sun had caught Brian in a good mood that day, and he was singing along to Paul McCartney's voice. 

"Then we lie beneath a shady tree; I love her and she's loving..." Brian trailed off before he could finish the line. A feeling of unease spidered up his entire body. His voice was heavy and unnatural in his mouth. 

Sometimes Brian forgot. Forgot that he wasn't the version of himself living inside his head. That he didn't exist in the way his consciousness wanted to. He supposed he didn't have it too bad. He was always told that his voice was a bit high and girly for his height (and Brian is just now realizing why he'd never felt ashamed to hear that), but it still wasn't enough. Brian didn't think it would _ever_ be enough. No matter what he did, the beast crawling in the back of his head would not loosen its grip on his brain until it got what it wanted. The thing Brian was so determined to never give. 

He found himself speaking less and less on the days when it bothered him a lot. It had gotten to the point where the boys had taken notice. 

"Brian? You in there?" Roger waved a hand in front of Brian's face, making him turn away from the living room wall he was staring at. 

"Huh?"

"Just making sure you aren't a brain dead zombie. It's been about twenty minutes."

Brian scratched the back of his neck, "Has it?"

"Mate, you must be really out of it," he replied, shaking his head in disbelief. "Have classes got you down or something?"

"What do you mean?"

Roger shuffled his feet, "Well, you haven't been talking, like, at all. Unless you're spoken to. You didn't even join Fred and I's argument in the studio yesterday."

He was right. Yesterday had been worse that in was at the moment. Plus, it had been a late night recording. and Brian couldn't bother to muster up the energy to give his opinion on how Freddie should deliver the first line of My Fairy King. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just out of it, I guess."

Roger didn't believe him, but he let it slide. 

 

"Guess what I've goooot?" Freddie made his grand appearance in Brian's room. 

Brian looked up from his book curiously. His flatmate was holding a small bottle, but his hand obscured most of it. 

Freddie couldn't contain himself any longer, "Nail polish!" 

"Nail polish?"

"Yes. I've had an idea for the band," Freddie allowed himself into the room, sitting on the end of Brian's bed. 

"You won't be able to get Roger and John to paint their nails." Brian paused. "Well, Roger maybe, but—"

"They aren't a part of this," interrupted Freddie. He held up the two bottles in front of his face. "I thought you could paint your right hand white and I could paint mine black. For symbolism. The light and the dark, and all."

Brian gently plucked the white bottle from Freddie's fingertips. He rolled the smooth glass over in his palm, contemplating. "Why are you the dark?

"In comparison to you? Everyone lies in your shadow, dear."

The compliment made Brian's face heat up. He grabbed a bottle to distract himself from the conversation. Long fingers hesitantly unscrewed the polish caps; the sharp alcoholic scent wafted through the air and stung Brian's nose. 

Brian frowned, "I've never done this before."

"Oh, it's easy," giving the brush a bit of a twirl, Freddie dipped it into the bottle and painted one black stroke across his thumbnail. "And if you get some on the edges we can always clean it up afterwards."

The two set to work, painting their fingertips on Brian's bedspread and giggling like schoolgirls when they messed up. The air was hot and thick with London rain and it increasingly weighed down on Brian's chest with every stroke of the brush. 

Freddie blew on his fingernails, "Alright, we have to let it dry before we put on a second coat, so be careful."

"Why does it need a second coat?"

"It makes the color bolder, and it's to make sure you fill in any gaps or weak spots."

Brian nodded, marveling at his own work. He'd had his nails painted before, done by the hand of his mother when he was very young. But he was in his twenties now, and the feeling of drying paint on his fingernails was foreign. 

It took about 10 minutes before they could add a second coat. Shakily, Brian perfected his fingertips with his left hand. Well, perfected was a bit of an overstatement. He tried his best. Freddie's obviously looked much neater from experience. (Brian would never forget the bright red polish from last year.)

"We can show off to the boys afterwards," Freddie held his hand out in front of him, twisting his wrist to get a look at different angles. "I bet they'll be jealous."

Brian snorted, "Yeah, totally."

"Oh, deep down they will be. It's so much fun! Like we're at a teenage girl's sleepover."

"I wouldn't know, I've never been to one."

"I've had my fair share. It's kind of like what we're doing right now, but later in the night and with more tits." This earned a laugh from Brian, making Fred smile proudly. 

"Oh, and there's more heart-to-heart conversation," he tacked on. 

Brian raised an eyebrow, "You want to have a heart-to-heart?"

"It's part of your first Girl's Night experience!"

"We aren't girls!"

Freddie looked at him. It lasted barely a fraction of a second, but it was enough for Brian to deflate, letting out a breath and slumping his shoulders forward. He toyed with the end of Freddie's floral scarf wrapped around his own neck with his unpainted hand.

"Please don't make me talk about it right now," whispered Brian. God, everything had to come back to Brian and his problem, didn't it? He didn't need Freddie hovering over him at every second of the day. He was just trying to forget about it and move on and forget about it, and all these conversations were making it impossible. Were making it less bearable to live with his feelings. 

"I just want to make sure you're okay," Freddie explained, dropping his tone to something gentler. It made Brian nearly scream in frustration. 

"I am _fine_ , Freddie. Perfectly fucking peachy. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't like to make everyone hear me bitch about every single fucking problem I have like you do?"

His words combined with the bite in his voice made Brian regret what he'd said before he even finished. He watched as Freddie closed his mouth, lips coming up over his teeth. 

"I'm sorry," mumbled Brian after a moment or five. "I'm not actually angry at you, I'm just—"

"I know," Freddie interrupted. He trailed his finger along the pattern on Brian's bedspread. " _Christ_ , I know."

Neither of them made an effort to speak after that. In all honesty, Brian had lost the energy to. He blew on his still drying fingertips. 

The clock on the nightstand ticked rhythmically. Freddie bounced his foot in time to each passing second. 

_Freddie_ Brian thought. If he had never told Freddie his secret. Then, maybe everything would be okay. Maybe he would've already been over this abnormal phase of his life by now. Deep down, he knew that wasn’t true, but blaming Freddie was so easy. It almost scared Brian how natural it was. 

Maybe it was the same way John felt about space. There was so much more to discover, but the idea of finding out was terrifying. 

"Do you feel like takeout?" Freddie snapped his head up. 

Brian shrugged, "Sure, I guess."

"I feel like having Japanese tonight. Do you remember the name of the place Roger went to last time?"

 

Fingers gripped Brian's hipbones harder as his skin met the man's below him yet again, relishing in the feeling of being small. So much smaller than the muscular man thrusting into him at a slow pace. Brian knew he was skinny, but nobody had ever been able to hold him with such ease before. A gasp left his lips as the man sped up. The fingers held on tighter than before, cutting into the sharp bone and most definitely leaving bruises. His ass stung already, and he knew it was just going to hurt worse later on, but it was becoming increasingly harder and harder to think about that as he was brought closer to the edge by the other man. 

One of the hands left Brian's narrow waist. He was disappointed for a fraction of a second, before it buried itself in his scalp, running its fingers back and forth and sending goosebumps up Brian's arms. He relished in the feeling of having his long hair played with, tilting his head back to lean into it.

They didn't talk. They hadn't spoken since they'd entered the man's house. They didn't communicate outside of gasps and moans. The feeling of being with a man was different to Brian, but the most off putting thing was that for once, he was the shorter one. If Brian was tall, the other man was gigantic, standing about four inches above him. And, unlike Brian, he was more than just skin and bones. It made him feel girlish, being with someone so much bigger and stronger. Brian watched his ab muscles flex as he jerked his hips up again, thrusts getting sloppy, hand around himself. 

Brian was the first one to come, all over the other man's chest. He followed not long after, but took the extra precaution of lifting Brian off of his cock and take off the condom before finishing himself off. 

Like a true gentleman, the man lifted himself off the bed with a groan and staggered into the connected bathroom. He emerged with two damp hand cloths and tossed one to Brian. It landed on his bare thigh with a wet slap. Brian thanked him quietly and wiped off everything he could find and then some, getting beneath the folds of his knees where sweat had formed and would dry unpleasantly if he didn't get rid of it. 

He handed the towel back to the man, expecting to be told to get dressed and go. But instead, the man, eyes still slightly glassy and swaying on his feet, pulled the two of them beneath the covers and Brian to his chest. 

Brian tried to pull away to put his clothes back on. His underwear, at least, but the other man gripped his arm tight and mumbled something that sounded like "Stay," which Brian obliged to even though he liked to take a shower after sex. 

Sex, he thought. He just had sex. With a _man_. His heartbeat picked up in his chest, why the hell did he do this? What did he expect to gain from this except for a sore ass? Did he think that getting fucked like a girl would make him realize that he had been wrong about everything? Brian didn't know, but it was nearing 3am and he suddenly felt tired and scared. He was still drunk, pressed into an unfamiliar body in an unfamiliar house and there was already the beginning of an ache in his thighs. He regret everything. He wanted to go home. 

It didn't take long for the man to fall asleep, thank God, and it wasn't too much of an effort for Brian to slip from his grasp (he replaced his body with a pillow just in case, though). He didn't even bother double checking if the clothes he threw on were his before escaping into the bathroom to wipe himself down again and wash out his mouth. 

Brian wanted to cry. He wasn't new to one night stands, but it was such a dumb move to go out in the state he was. To not even give it a moment's consideration when the man had asked Brian to come home with him. It wasn't like him to act so recklessly, nothing he did nowadays was like him at all, and it was fucking _frightening_. 

Who was the real Brian May? Did he even want to figure it out? 

He remembered seeing a phone in the kitchen when he'd first entered the flat, so he navigated his way through the house until he eventually stumbled upon it and dialed up the number to his flat. Someone picked up after 4 rings. 

"H'lo?" Roger's sleepy voice crackled over the line. 

"Roger?" Brian whispered. And, shit, his voice was wrecked, and he sounded so fucking scared. 

"Brian?" he replied, sounding much more awake. "I fell asleep waiting for you to get home. Are you okay? Where are you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm not injured or anything. Could you come pick me up?" He gave Roger the street name he was on, saying that he'd meet him outside. 

Roger sighed deeply out of relief, "Of course. I'll be there in a few minutes. Hang tight for me, alright?"

"Alright. See you, Rog." Brian's voice wavered at the end. The line hung up not long after, leaving him alone in the deafening silence of a stranger's kitchen. 

He glanced around to pass the time, but there wasn't much to look at. The counters were bare except for a bunch of bananas beside an open breadbox. The humming and clacking of the refrigerator was magnified by the time of night. His legs hurt. There were bruises on his hipbones and love bites on his neck. A lump formed in Brian's throat. 

When checking the window for the umpteenth time, he finally saw Roger's car pull up a few buildings down. As quietly as possible, Brian left the flat and raced down the stairs (having to move a bit awkwardly because, well, yeah). 

Roger was standing outside of the vehicle when he found him, still in his pajamas and hair disheveled to no end. When he caught sight of Brian, he sprinted over and enveloped him in a hug. 

"Jesus, you scared me so fucking much. Do you have any idea? When you called—I thought you could've been _dying_."

Brian rubbed Roger's back, "You don't have to worry any more, I'm alright. I'm right here."

Roger pulled back, sniffing a little and letting out a humorless laugh, "You shouldn't be the one comforting me, for Christ's sake. What happened?" They started back towards the car. 

"I..." he trailed off, trying to think of a way to explain. Roger's started at his feet and slowly made it up his body. 

"You aren't injured, are you? You're walking like Fred after—" he finally met Brian's eyes, which were pleading him to not say any more. "Oh. _Oh_."

Brian wanted to die. Neither of them dared to speak the whole ride back, but both of their minds were racing with things they wanted to say.

A drop of rain fell on the passenger's window. right next to Brian's head. Then another. And another. And then some more. 

Drip. 

Drop. 

Splat. 

None of the lights were on in the windows of their flat, which gave Brian some hope that he could at least avoid any more confrontation until morning. Roger gripped the keys tightly in his fist as they walked up the stairs. 

"He didn't—" Roger started before he turned the lock on their door. "He didn't, you know, do anything. Right?"

Brian raised an eyebrow, "I'm not following."

He pursed his lips and let out a long breath, blowing strands of blonde hair out of his view.

"He didn't do anything that you didn't want?" Asked Roger slowly, like he was trying to spread through a mouthful of molasses. 

His mouth fell open, appalled, "I wasn't fucking _raped_ , Roger!" Brian whisper-yelled. 

Roger sighed, maybe in relief. Brian couldn't tell. "Good. I just—fuck, we're all scared out of our wits." Finally, he turned the key in the lock. 

"We're?" Brian asked. "Do you mean Freddie and John are still awa—"

His question was answered before he could finish asking as the door swung open and revealed the living room, occupied by two bodies on the couch and the low scraping of a needle against the end of a vinyl record. 

"Did you get him?" John whispered immediately. He held up a finger to silence Roger when he caught sight of him in the doorway, pointing to a passed out Freddie against his shoulder.

"Yeah," Roger rasped back, gently pulling Brian along with him. John beckoned him over onto the adjacent seat. He examined Brian up and down, with both his hands and his eyes, patting at his arms and calculating his expressions, his breathing pattern, his eye movements. Sometimes it felt like John could read his thoughts. 

"You're a little drunk, Bri," John said softly. "Is that where you went? When you didn't come home like the left of us?"

Brian nodded. There was no use in trying to lie. 

"Did something happen today? You should've at least called, you know."

He nodded again, feeling so shitty for making the three of them worry so much. He didn't think it would've been that big of a deal, to be honest. Roger stayed over at other people's places all the time. Freddie was once gone for the whole weekend before they started to worry. But, Brian realized, he wasn't Roger or Freddie. He didn't go out like they did. He certainly didn't have sex like they did. 

"I think you should go to bed," John said. 

"Me too," Brian replied. His voice had gotten a bit better since he'd spoken to Roger on the phone. He stood up and made his way to his bedroom. 

"Goodnight, Brian," Roger called over his shoulder. "I'll leave you some water and medication on your nightstand. You'll thank me later."

If he replied, Roger didn't hear it. Instead, he turned to John, who was playing with the ends of Freddie's hair. 

"What do you think's going on with him?" Roger asked, even though he's already asked a thousand times. 

"I don't know," John replied like he always did. "I wish I did. I wish he'd get better."

Roger worried his bottom lip between his teeth, teetering on whether to tell John the real reason why Brian was out so late that night. 

Not right now, he decided. That would stay between him and Roger. With him and Freddie being so buddy-buddy with each other all the time now, surely Roger was allowed to keep one moment with Brian to himself. Maybe it was selfish. Roger didn't care. 

"I'm heading to bed too, Deaks," he said, lifting himself from the couch. "Do you need help getting Fred to his room?"

John hummed, "I'm fine sleeping here tonight. Well, this morning, technically. See you in a few hours."

"Yeah, 'night."

"'Night, Rog."


End file.
